Collected Doyle&Prentiss and Doyle&Lauren Short Fics
by MyQuantumTheory
Summary: I take requests and write drabble / ficlet things over on my tumblr, and I figured I should collect them here too, for those of you who don't do the tumblr thing. These are the Dentiss ones.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi! Here's a collection of Doyle/Lauren and Doyle/Emily short ficcy things based on prompts I did on my tumblr. Fair warning, no particular timeline and a couple of reimaginings of the same situation. Reviews are always very much appreciated, and I hope you enjoy :)**

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"She'll be here," Doyle says calmly, leaning against the rail of the balcony and looking down, watching his men work. They're packing up a truck, and she should be back with more supplies by now, things they're relying on, things only she can get.

Liam shakes his head in frustration. He'd grab Doyle by the shoulders and try to shake some sense into him, except he'd have his head on a spike. And it's not like he hasn't already tried. "Will she?"

"She's careful," Doyle says, without taking his eyes off his men. "Smart. Smarter by far than any of this lot," he adds, nodding down at them. "She'll be okay."

"That's not what I meant. People are talking."

Doyle turns to him, his eyes dangerous. "Then I'll shut them up."

"She's been gone since Friday and you're not worried?" Liam challenges, knowing he's on thin ice, knowing Lauren herself is the only thing that has a hope of calming him; talk of her is one of a thousand things that can light his fuse.

But just as Doyle looks like he might really lose his patience, he stops suddenly, looking over Liam's shoulder with a triumphant smile. "I told you," he says, his face softening in a way that's frankly more worrying than the stony glare he wore before. Valhalla so angry he'll beat a man to a pulp – that, Liam can handle, has been handling for a long time. Valhalla blindly in love with a woman who's obviously too good to be true – that's more dangerous by a mile. She's a world of trouble and he's walking into it with open arms, dragging them all with him.

Doyle ignores his muttered protests and goes out to meet her, stopping short of actually running. She doesn't though – she bounds toward him, beaming, the gold chain around her neck glinting in the midday sun. He catches her at the waist and she throws her arms around his neck, presses herself fully against him and catches his earlobe with her teeth. He pulls her closer, growling low in her ear. "You're late."

"Unexpected snag," she replies, nuzzling against his cheek, the forbidden thrill of his body against hers racing through her veins. "Nothing I couldn't handle."

"Of course not," he says, a kind of warm pride settling in his chest, because she's good at what she does and she's _his_. He throws a glance up at Liam, waiting on the balcony. He can see his distrustful expression from here. "Some people are losing faith."

She pulls back just far enough to kiss him, hard, then pulls his face down so his forehead rests on hers. "Some people don't know a good thing when they see it," she says, keeping her voice playful although fear is flickering around the edges of her consciousness. Ian is just about the only one who trusts her, and if they get to him, she knows she won't get out alive. But for now, she's okay – his eyes sparkle with possession as he knots his hand in her hair and comes in for another kiss, and she holds on tight, her nerves tingling with adrenaline.


	2. Chapter 2

"Hello, love." He reaches for her, slips his hand around her waist and a thrill runs up her spine. He's been flirtatious before, even a bit possessive, but he hasn't been physical. The spark has been there since the moment they met, but he's been careful, not letting her get too close. As he pulls her body into his, she rests her hand on his chest, keeping enough distance between them so she can meet his eyes easily. He looks back at her with a smile, and it knocks the air out of her a little. He's dropped the hard edges around his gaze, and what's left is soft, warm, something that makes her heart flutter in ways it should not be fluttering. He's let his guard down, at least for this moment, and it's kind of breathtaking.

Not that she should be thinking it's breathtaking. She should be thinking it's a lot closer to where she needs him to be.

"Hey," she says, smiling easily, and can't help the heat that runs through her as his grip on her waist tightens. She does everything she can to ignore the tingling warmth building in her skin, but some traitorous part of her has her curving into his touch. "How was your meeting?"

"Didn't go quite how I hoped," he replies, not evasive so much as uninterested. "But I'll handle it. What did you do while I was gone?"

"Oh, you know," she says, definitely evasive – she trails her hand from his chest up over his shoulder, around his neck, and watches his pupils dilate, feels his breathing quicken just a little. He has been so controlled until now it takes her a few seconds to process it. "Are you drunk?" she says, her voice light and teasing. She knows his kitchen is not exactly short on whisky, but she's never actually seen him drink it.

"Not _drunk_ ," he protests in a low voice, and the sound races through her.

"I see," she replies, brushing her fingertips over the back of his neck again, her heart pounding hard and fast for a whole mess of reasons she cannot pick apart and process right now. His hands slide over her back, settling over the curve of her spine and holding her to him, and she tries not to think that even with the whisky on his breath he smells good. But there's an electricity building between them, and she can't not think it, and as her chin tilts up and his hands tighten on her and their lips find each other, she forgets what she's doing, forgets for a few glorious seconds that unforgivable betrayal is the best case scenario for them and just breathes him in.


	3. Chapter 3

She sits on the edge of Declan's bed and clicks the lamp off. She shouldn't be doing this – she told Ian no. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knows she's already more involved than anybody meant her to get, so she sure as hell should not be putting his son to bed. But he was half asleep in her lap when men started yelling outside, and he turned into her and held onto her sweater and now here they are.

His hand snakes out from under the covers and puts the lamp right back on. She smiles. "You want to read a story?" she offers.

"No thanks," he mumbles.

There's more yelling downstairs, clearly Ian this time – really, she should get down there, find out what's going on. But she's listening with half an ear and it doesn't sound like new information. She'll find out from Ian tonight. As Declan burrows further under the covers, she finds herself sliding onto the floor to get closer to him, resting her hand on the edge of the bed. "What about songs?" she says softly. "Do you like to sing?"

His hand finds hers. "Maybe," he whispers. "If you do."

She closes her eyes for a second, clears her throat. "Okay. Deal. What songs do you know?"

They sing an Irish lullaby first, one Louise taught him – she finds she knows some of the words already, and he teaches her the rest. His voice is sweet and small, getting stronger as he starts to forget the yelling and concentrate on the singing. They haven't stopped downstairs though, so she moves quickly onto something she learned in French as a child, singsong and repetitive but not too chirpy, and he joins in a little. She wonders if Ian is teaching him, if this is for business. The thought makes his sweet voice sound bitter in her ears, so she starts a new song.

She carries on for a while after he stops singing back, his hand relaxing in hers, her fingertips tracing patterns over his forearm. She can't let him grow up into this. She has to get him out. She stops singing, rests her head against his bed and against her better judgement she allows herself to imagine a life like this, a life where he could grow up safe and happy and with her.

A low voice from the door breaks through her silence. "I didn't know you could sing."

She looks up at Ian and smiles, holds her hands up toward him and he helps her up, leads her into the hallway and pulls her into his arms. "We could still do it, you know," he says, his voice warm in her ear. "He loves you."

She takes a step back, reaches up to touch his cheek, his stubble rough on her palm and blue eyes piercing into her. "He heard you fighting," she says. "He was afraid." She hesitates, only briefly thinks she's pushing her luck. "Take it somewhere else next time."

He looks for a second like he might argue, then nods. "Lauren."

"Ian."

" _I_ love you."

There's a leap inside her, a kind of quiet joy she has no right to feel.


	4. Chapter 4

He pulls the sheets up over them, wraps an arm around herand pulls her in close, stroking his fingers over the perfect, soft skin of her abdomen. "I'll come with you," he says into her hair as she fits herself into his body. "Just this time."

"No you won't," she murmurs, her hand soft on his arm as she pulls him close, closes her eyes and wills him not to argue. She hates having to lie about these trips. Which is ridiculous, she tells herself, because it's all a lie. Theoretically. She closes her eyes, takes a breath. "I'm going alone."

"It's not safe right now."

She laughs softly. "It's never safe, Ian."

But she knows what he means. They got into a sticky situation this past week with one of his suppliers – guns and blood and a lot of anger. And the guy had been looking at her with a collector's eye that nearly got him killed, until she talked Ian down.

He growls low in her ear, nuzzles her hair away and kisses her temple. It's tender, but there's no mistaking the possession that has him pulling her close, sliding a hand up under her breast. "I don't want you getting hurt because you're too damn stubborn -"

" _I'm_ stubborn?" she say, a teasing note in her voice, turning to him and swinging a leg over his hip as she rests her forehead against his. "I've told you a thousand times that you don't need to protect me. I'd be no fun if you did," she adds, and he smiles, his eyes sparkling. "I'll be back before you know it," she whispers, stroking his cheekbone lightly.


	5. Chapter 5

"You know, it's okay to cry," he says. "Love, you don't have to -"

She turns away, bracing herself on the counter and staring down at her hands, gripping tight to keep them from shaking. _Slow breaths_ , she tells herself. _Count backwards from ten. Keep it together. Ten… Nine…_ _I am Lauren Reynolds. I am an arms dealer. I killed a man today. Eight… Seven… It is not okay to cry._

"I'm okay," she says, her voice tense.

"I'll kill them, every last one of his people," Ian mutters by way of reply, his voice leaving no room for interpretation.

"No," she says, turning back to face him, locking eyes with him and batting his hand away when he reaches for her. "You won't. Not in my name, Ian. It's over."

"He _shot_ _you_ , Lauren."

"I killed him," she replies, as if that settles it, as if it's not just another bloodstain on a conscience she's starting to think she'll never scrub clean. She holds his gaze, watches it soften and lets him pull her forward, wrapping his arms around her gingerly, careful of the thick bandages around her upper arm.

"I can't lose you," he says into her hair, and she squeezes her eyes shut, hates herself a hundred times more.

 _Count backwards from ten. I am Emily Prentiss. I am doing my job. This is a terrorist. This is Valhalla. He has killed more people than I will ever know._

"You won't," she whispers, ignoring the shooting pain in her arm as she holds him closer, feeling solid, steady beat of his heart against her chest. "I'm all yours."


	6. Chapter 6

She tried to prepare herself before she saw him for the inevitable flashbacks, the chills, the few breathless, terrified seconds she knew would come when those eyes locked with hers, before her body adjusted to the present. But she wasn't prepared enough for this – the way he looks at her with something that's a lot like admiration gets her heart pounding so hard she can't speak for a few seconds. It's the way he used to look at her when she was Lauren, like she was indestructible, like she could do anything and he'd be right there with her. It somehow makes everything else worse – the pain in her stomach, her clammy hands… She starts to spread the pictures in front of him.

He can't help it – he's impressed. He's always been impressed by her. Of _course_ she survived. When she speaks, her voice is low and deadly – god it's sexy – and he tells himself it's not Lauren, Lauren wasn't real, but _this_ – this is her. Darker in some ways, more guarded, but her. A big part of him is glad he didn't kill her. The fire in those eyes when she talks about what he did to Chloe, how he got Declan… It sparks a thousand feelings in him, a thousand questions… When she gets up to leave, he can't help himself. "Wait."

"I have to g-"

"Come back. When you've done what you're doing with that list, come back. I want to talk to you."

She hesitates for a second. He's cuffed and chained for a reason – he should not be calling the shots in this interaction. But she nods once, then leaves, gives herself a second to take a deep breath and get herself together before getting back to the team.

When she comes back, she sits down opposite him. "We have a few minutes," she says, her poker face extending into her voice. "You wanted to talk?"

He looks her over. Her eyes are almost black in this light, her posture straight and confident. And god if that mouth isn't completely perfect. "If it had been you," he says. "What would you have done?"

Her brow furrows. "If what had been me?"

"If you were pregnant," he says, and he wonders if he imagines the way her hand shifts slightly toward her body. She flattens it on the table. "With my baby. Would you have killed him?"

"She wasn't trying to _kill_ him, Ian. He was her choice to make."

"That's not what I asked."

She allows herself a moment, looking down at her hands on the table. "I don't know," she says, bringing her eyes back to his. She thinks of the Catholic teenager she barely remembers, the choice she always assumed would be a no-brainer, until it wasn't. "Nobody knows, until it happens."

"You loved Declan," he says. It's not a question, so she doesn't answer, doesn't even correct the tense. "We could have -"

"No," she says firmly, the bite back in her voice because no matter how she feels about him, no matter how he looks at her and how he makes her heart race, he is still _this_ , still a man who kills families and treats his son like he's nothing but an heir, a prize to be won and polished. He loves him, of course he does, but not the way he should. Not the way he deserves. "We couldn't."

"You would have been a good mother."

She grits her teeth, consciously keeps her hands flat on the table because bringing them to her abdomen would be a dead giveaway. She wonders whether he knows, whether he has any idea of the mess he made in there, what he took away… "You mean Lauren," she says, because she doesn't know what else to say.

He shrugs, his eyes piercing into hers. "Not all that different, from what I can see."


	7. Chapter 7

Morgan runs into the room as she gets Doyle on the floor – when she's patched up, the team is allowed in to see her, and there are a thousand things she wants to say but she can only think of one. She locks eyes with Hotch. "I want to see Doyle."

He hesitates, taking in the cuts and swelling, the bandages and the bruises, and the straight, determined way she holds herself… "We shouldn't," he says, then nods. "Two minutes."

He doesn't look surprised to see her when the door opens. They look each other over, assessing the damage they've done. He's cuffed and shackled, but he nods at the chair opposite him, inviting her to sit as if she's coming into his office to talk business. It's his way of taking control, and she hesitates for a split second, then lets him have it – the only alternative is to stand, and her body doesn't exactly feel up to it. "I can't stay long," she says, as she sits down – white hot pain shoots through her ribs and she bites back her reaction, forces herself to sit up straight and meet his eyes. "I just had to see you."

"Was all of that true?" he asks. His glare is hard and untrusting, his voice rough with barely veiled hope. "About Declan?"

"Every word," she replies steadily. "He's alive. He's safe. He's doing good."

"You had no right," he growls. "He's mine."

"He's not a thing, Ian," she says, working hard to keep the bite out of her voice. "You can't own him. He's a little boy. He has a good life now – a better life than you could've given him."

"You had no right to hide him from me."

She sighs. "I know that you love him," she says, treading carefully. She knows the profile, she knows it's insane to expect him to understand. "And you know that I do too. He deserves a happy, normal life, and he has that now. That's the best thing we can do for him. Trying to hold onto him is… It's…" She shrugs. "Selfish."

"I've been called worse things, love."

"Yeah."

They're quiet for a few seconds, infinite seconds – their lives and their choices stretch out between them as their eyes meet, and then there's a knock at the door. "Agent Prentiss? Time's up."

She stands up, puts all her effort into not limping because she can feel Ian's eyes follow her to the door. She turns in the doorway and looks back at him, trying to figure out what she's supposed to feel. He gives her a little wave, as much movement as he can manage with his cuffed hands. She nods, and walks out.


	8. Chapter 8

She sits on the jet with her legs pulled up in front of her, eyes closed. She's already pretended to sleep for two hours, and Clyde is not letting her away with it any more. "Come on, wake up. I want to talk to you before we land… Emily."

The name is jarring in her ears – her head snaps up and she looks at him, wide-eyed. She catches herself quickly, though – she clears her throat, cracks her neck and straightens her posture. She just has to keep it together until she's in a room alone. She can do that. They hired her because she can do that.

"Hello darling," he says, with an easy smile. She'd smile back normally, or would have before, but this time she doesn't react at all – she betrays nothing, maintaining an expression of alert concentration. "You did it. It's over."

She forces a smile she knows doesn't reach her eyes and nods. "Over," she repeats, keeping her voice strong and steady, her eyes locked on his.

"We'll get you sorted out when we get home."

She nods, managing another smile. She knows the drill – debriefs and therapy and all kinds of stuff to make sure she knows how to be herself again. She's been there before. But she's never felt this before. She feels dirty, not because of what she did with Ian but what she did _to_ him, and knowing that's ridiculous and destructive and unprofessional isn't making it go away. She can't do this again, she realises. This is it. She's done. "I want out," she says, before she can stop herself.

Clyde's eyebrows raise and he gives her a small nod. "Let's wait a few days before we make that decision," he says. "Take all the time you need. But you know you can get out. You can have any job you want. My letter of recommendation will be spectacular."

She smiles a little, a real one this time. "I want -" she begins, then shakes her head.

"Go on," he urges. "Off the record, if you like. What do you want?"

She leans her head back against the headrest and looks past him, out to the inky sky. "I want to turn the clock back to before," she says, trying to make her voice light, like it's nothing but a throwaway comment. Except it isn't, and he's not an idiot.

He nods slowly. He's never seen her like this. "Well, darling, we could change all the clocks in the world, but that wouldn't make you forget it. The only way out is through."


	9. Chapter 9

She holds a picnic basket in one hand, the other holding the crook of Ian's elbow – his hands are occupied holding Declan's legs, balancing him on his shoulders. Declan holds onto Ian's head unnecessarily, grinning with birthday boy excitement. She chooses a spot on the grass near the playground, spreads the blanket, and lifts Declan down from Ian's shoulders, puts him down on the ground and opens up the basket. "You ready for your birthday lunch? There's cake in it for you."

Declan grins, nodding vigorously. "Yes please."

"Are you going to say thank you to Lauren for making your birthday picnic?" Ian prompts.

"Thank you," Declan says politely, and wraps his arms tight around her. She cuddles him close, Ian watching her with a smile on his face softer than she'd have imagined possible. She smiles back, feeling much softer herself than she ever plans on admitting, in so deep there's no point in even documenting how far over the line she's drifting.

"You're welcome," she murmurs, and kisses the top of Declan's head. "Happy birthday, sweetheart."

They eat lunch together, the sky blue and perfect and infinite overhead, and she tries not to let herself think that they should have at least brought Louise as cover, that this could be putting Declan in danger. There's no reason her team would be watching her today, no way for them to even know where she is, but also no reason for them to worry about her. She's been careful. And Declan deserves to have memories like this with his father. She pushes all of this as far from her thoughts as she can get it and just eats lunch with them, unwrapping a slice of birthday cake for each of them. She didn't make this part – she sucks at cake.

Declan takes his slice happily, licks at the cream and frosting first, and she smiles at him, and Ian's hand comes up and brushes her hair out of her face. "You're really special to him, you know?"

"He's really special to me too," she replies, and Ian beams at her.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, love?"

"Can I go on the swings?"

"Right after lunch?" she asks dubiously.

Ian laughs. "We live on the edge in this family," he tells her, and he tags Declan and races him to the playground, running theatrically slowly so Declan beats him there by a few seconds, red-faced and grinning. She packs up and follows slowly behind them, watching Declan clamber onto the swing, Ian laughing as he pushes him. She comes to Ian's side, places the basket down by the swing and kisses him, hard, because right now this is perfect, and right now is all they ever have.


End file.
